Sherlock Holmes and the case of the floral token
by Spy'd R
Summary: Holmes and Watson have to solve a series of peculiar murders; until they make a dangerous discovery.
1. The Murder

Sherlock Holmes

~and the case of the floral token~

The first time is always the most interesting event, whereas the last is the most touching. This statement is not only valid regarding activities but in fact it goes for almost everything in life. This included the day when John Watson first met his future flat-mate, but also on another, more complicated day in their own little history.

1

Sherlock's eyes would most certainly have given him away, if John had just looked a little closer. John was not a dull man, on the contrary! He was very witty, but, it was true that observation and deduction were not two of his strengths. Because if it would have been so, John would have seen what was wrong. If Sherlock's recollections were right (which they almost always were) it had started three and a half months ago, during the case of the floral token.

Holmes paced up and down the living room of their Baker Street lodgings as often did, when he had nothing else to do. Dr. Watson seemed to enjoy the evening papers; but in truth he did not. He badly worried about this friend, knowing that, if he didn't find an adequate case soon, he would calm his buzzing nerves with a good dose of cocaine. It was indeed one of the first things the doctor ever truly knew about Sherlock Holmes.

"Please do not worry about me, my friend. Don't waste your thoughts on such unimportant a matter."

"For heaven's sake Holmes! You are not unimportant, when will you begin to understand! Even if you don't have a case." Holmes gave a short but loud laugh, before Watson continued after a lengthy silence. "But...I still wish to know how you deduced all this! These were exactly my thoughts!"

"It was the easiest to observe, Watson. Your face gave you away. I know that you worry about me, because your eyes constantly wander from your paper, of which you surely haven't read a single line yet, me and my desk, where, you know I keep my supplies of cocaine. I haven't planned on taking it today. This evening I will do with a good pipe or two, but no more." here Holmes smiled and indeed took some tobacco from his Persian slipper that hung aside the fireplace.

"I must admit that this pleases me. It is no good to poison your body as well as your unique brain, just to get some distraction. But I don't need to tell YOU this, Holmes, do I?"

"You do not indeed. But there are other reasons for my abstinence. It seems you drew the wrong conclusions from my behaviour. Again."

"Oooooch, Holmes! This is not fair! You know how hard I try!"

"And yet you still do not succeed very often, my friend."

"I still would like to know the reason..."

"Very well Watson: We are expecting a client; or other CLIENTS. They're on their way here. But to be true, I am a bit disappointed that you were not able to deduce this."

Seconds later, the door was to be heard and Mrs. Hudson opened the door. In this very moment, John was glad to live here, and he hoped that this house would never be empty.

The steps in the hallway came ever closer to the door, and though they were muffled by the carpet, it proved Holmes was right once more: it was more than one person.

"A couple...how unusual..." murmured Holmes. As the door opened, a man came in. His way of dressing gave away that he came from a good family, as well as his wife, for she wore a beautiful white dress made of excellent fabric. Their way of speaking also undermined the obvious.

"Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Felix McLeod, and this is my dear betrothed Anna." Mr. McLeod seemed to be very distressed, whereas his fiancée behaved exaggeratedly cool.

"We come in a matter which very much upsets us, and we hope that you can help us, Mr. Holmes."

"I cannot help you, Mr. McLeod, without knowing the nature of what troubles you so deeply." Holmes replied unimpressed.

"Ah yes, of course."

"Good, then please be seated, and prey commence your story."

Astonishingly for the detective and his biographer, the woman began to speak. Her voice was self-assured and strong but nonetheless beautiful.

"We are haunted by a series of very peculiar events, gentlemen. It began two days ago. First our servant, Brightsmith, showed strange behaviour-"

"We thought he might go mad!" Mr. McLeod chipped in.

"But now we have reasons to believe, that he was just terribly afraid and probably knew, or at least expected what was to come."

"He did not survive the last two days, I gather?" both clients looked at Holmes in a puzzled manner. Then Mrs. McLeod shook her head in amazement before she continued.

"However you deduce this, Mr. Holmes, but you are very right."

"Oh it was obvious to me, the very moment you spoke of him in the past. That you honour him with your words clearly shows that he didn't leave for a better post, but died." Once more silent amazement briefly filled the room.

"Well, as I was saying: Mr. Brightsmith began to develop a strange behaviour. One he had never shown before in all these five years he now lived with us, Mr. Holmes." It was now, that the lady seemed to notice Dr. Watson for the first time, although she had greeted him when she had come in.

"How exactly did the strange behaviour show?" asked Holmes.

"First it started with him forgetting orders or tasks, such as failing to make my tea, or serving my husband's brandy."

"How come...you are not married, and Mr. And Mrs. McLeod but you live together for more than five years, and you refer to him as your husband...?"

This time it was Mr. McLeod who spoke. "Anna's parents do not agree with our marriage. There is an old fight between our families, that doesn't want end! It seems they do not mind us being together, but neither my family nor Anna's would willingly agree with us being married."

Holmes nodded politely. "Are you sure this is the only reason for you not being married?" asked he. All the other people in the room were at least taken aback by this statement; even Dr. Watson, though one could believe that he of all persons should be used to Holmes' ways and means of investigation. Mr. McLeod rose to his feet, meaning to threaten his accuser, but the same rose just as quick.

"How dare you, Mr. Holmes!? My wife and I have come to seek your help and not to become victims of your repellent slander!" Holmes stayed calm, as was his manner. "Please sit back down, Mr. McLeod. I do not see any reason for your outburst, for I have asked a mere question to which we will have to return to now, or otherwise I will not be able to take this case on. Now is there any other reason, apart from your family's disagreement, that you are not a married couple yet?"

"No..." the client sighed heavily. "No, there is none."

"Good. Thank you. Now please go on telling what happened...without leaving any information out. That is also for you, Mrs. McLeod."

"As you wish..." the female client apparently gave in to something, before she went on recollecting. "Anyway, these sudden lapses of duty continued until the already mentioned date. You need to know, that Brightsmith occupied the largest of rooms in the north-wing of our house. This is the part where all our staff lives. It's the part that is farthest away from our own bed room. It was in the middle of the night, when we heard awful screams. And when we sent Holly, our maid, to look what was the matter, she returned crying and panicking and good ten minutes later only to tell us, that he wouldn't open his door, nor were there any signs of life to be found. We then woke Stanley, our gardener and stable lad, to force the door, for the key was stuck on the inside. There we found Brightsmith...murdered. It was horrible! There were feathers everywhere on the ground and in the bed. And our poor butler was...decorated...with violet lilies. As if his whole room were a coffin. There also was this smell! Good lord, it was dreadful how the smell of blood mingled with the sweet smell of flowers! I will never be able to smell lilies again!" she trailed off, finally giving way to the grief she had held back all this time. Her fiancée added "It seems he has been stabbed to death, for there were many wounds, covering his body, which looked like stab wounds. The oddest thing, beside the fact that he must have been placed on his bed, and deliberately covered in feathers and flowers, was that we found this on our late butler's right eye." He handed a piece of silver over to Holmes, who then examined it with the greatest care.

"Interesting..." muttered he. "This is very, very curious..."

"Have you seen this before, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"No, it is not familiar to me, but it is obvious that this is some kind of token" Holmes passed on the coin to his companion. The little silver coin had a blooming lily embossed in the very middle of both sides.

"A token of what?" Watson and both of the McLeod uttered simultaneously.

"It is a token of more to come."


	2. Twenty Minutes

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* * *

~2~

"Another murder? Are-are we in danger?!"

"I am not sure...not yet. I will take the case with the greatest pleasure, Mr. And . The only advice I can give you for now is that you return to home, or stay in a hotel, somewhere where the murderers might not expect you, but you must order your staff to go to their rooms and never- NEVER leave alone. The murderers won't commit any act of violence if somebody else is present, of that I am certain."

The clients stood up and, for the time being, said their farewell. Before leaving the room, Mrs. McLeod turned to Sherlock Holmes once more. "Thank you...for taking the case." Said she; not completely without hesitation. Then she went away.

There was a long silence after the two persons had left, as it was often the case, for Sherlock needed to think the matter over again.

"My dear Watson!" he began after a good while. "What do you make of this whole wretched business?"

"Well," said the other man. "I certainly think it's a case worthy of your energy."

"But what do you make of the situation? Because the CASE, Watson! The case is singular to any of my previous ones, I daresay."

"Quite so." John muttered unheard.

"Pray tell me your opinion." A very short but sweet smile appeared on Sherlock's face, but was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Well then...I say that this was a ritualistic murder, and it seems that it was committed quite...ugh..." he was lacking in words to describe this act of cruelty. "...Ummmm..."

"PASSIONATELY!" Holmes finally cried; speaking out what his friend had had in mind.

"The murderers had planned everything in great detail, and succeeded. The fact that they lifted the dead, probably quite heavy body into the bed, speaks even more so of their commitment. Had they cared less, they would have placed the body on the floor, where he was lying anyway."

"They didn't indicate any such thing, Holmes; neither of them!"

"Exactly, my friend. That is the point, for none of our clients ever mentioned a pool of blood, or blood in the mattress. Just the SMELL of it...and these curious flowers..."

"What do you make of them?"  
"As I said before; this murder was committed as a ritual, so the conclusion that must be drawn from this, until we have any further detail, is that this belongs to it's dreadful prosess. But Watson, there is one thing else that is important for a ritual."

"What's this, Holmes?"

"It must be repeated."

* * *

"Very sure."

At this, Holmes stood up and began to pace up and down the room, his hands steepled under his chin.

"Pray, Watson. Leave me be for twenty minutes, so I may think in peace. You think aloud and it is incredibly irritating… No, no. Do not look at me like that my dear man."

He placed a hand to Watson's back and beckoned him to the door.

"Just twenty minutes."

John span round before he was pushed out of the comfort of the sitting room.

"No doubt I can find something to bide that time with." He muttered before he was no longer looking at Holmes, but the oak of the door. With an irritable sigh, he took himself up to his room and engaged himself in the reading of a yellow cover. Although it bothered him, Watson knew this act far too well. It was a common occurrence when it came to Holmes. Of course, the rooms they shared were equally both of theirs but when push came to shove, Holmes was the one to win the study to himself. Occasionally, he'd allow Watson to stay. John preferred those cases; the cases the great Sherlock Holmes kept him nearby (mainly for the use of his revolver.) However, it was only twenty minutes and those twenty minutes flew as fast as a swallow in spring winds. There was a small tap at Watson's door, followed by a few scuffling noises.

"Watson, I am heading for the library. I would very much lik… Appreciate it if you came with me."

He paused.

"… But if you do not wish to then that is fine."

"Of course Holmes. Let me just freshen up and I shall be with you in an instant."


	3. What is the matter with Mr Holmes?

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* * *

~3~

It didn't take as long as expected to find the two men a cab; for it was the most pleasant summer's morning outside. People filled the streets, rushing or strolling along; conducting their business or simply stopping for a moment to hungrily seek out their lover's eyes. Both Sherlock and John shortly regarded the daily hubbub; the one with sweet memories and the other with sharp an eye, taking in every little detail around. The cab began set to motion with a jolt.

"Why the library?" asked Watson after they had left Baker Street. "Wouldn't Scotland Yard or the Archive be of more use to us?"

"Not yet Watson; not yet. I must find out more about this curious ritual. And taking that aside, the library also houses the newspaper archive. And we might meet somebody there."

* * *

At the library, Holmes first headed for the common books about symbols and their meaning. Watson was left to stand aside, and regard his friend like he had, so many times before now. His eyes trailed the sharp, eagle like nose, down to the narrow lips, which narrowed even more, when, in times like this, he began to sense danger. Watson's eyes saw the detevtive's who was way too focused on finding a clue to this distressing case than to notice that he was being observed so closely. Over this, the doctor came to muse. Perhaps Holmes would be proud of him, if he knew that he could in fact observe anything, even if it was just his friend; his best friend his-...

"Watson, would you stop staring at me, man?! This is not why I have asked you to come."" cried Holmes, ripping his companion brutally away from his thoughts. Then there was another pause, for Watson did not know what to reply to this sudden outburst. Holmes exhaled heavily; a soft chuckle escaped this throat.

"I need a cigarette. Would you join me outside?" said he and dashed off to the yard.

* * *

Watson had taken his time to meet with Holmes. This truly strange behaviour had given him more to think about, as well as to worry. When their eyes met outside, in the yard, Holmes seemed to have returned to his old self.

""I am so very sorry, my dear, dear Watson. It was unforgivable to speak to you like this. I hope you will accept my apology in form of dinner at Birmingham's to night?"""

"You do not need to apologise like this, Holmes."

"Oh Watson, but I insist! One must not treat a friends so! Especially as good a companion as you are to me."

"Well then, thank you Holmes! But I still think I shall examine you, as a doctor."

"No! No Watson, there is no need for that. I am feeling splendid!"

"You cannot be fine. You are sweating."

Holmes sighed quietly. "I shall explain everything to you, when the time has come, but now, my man. Not yet."" suddenly Holmes' eyes fixed on something behind John. "I am not ready…" he muttered, before almost singing the name of the man he had just seen in false joy. "Aaaah, Lestrade! What a pleasure to see you again!"

"Pleasure's mine Mr. Holmes." said he, in an equally simulated tone. "Dr. Watson."" He nodded pleasantly towards the addressed man before returning to Holmes. "So you also found out about the "McLeod Tragedy."  
Watson could picture his friend rolling his eyeballs, even though he stood behind him.

"McLeod Tragedy? Lestrade, Lestrade, to endue brutal crimes as this particular case with a name is not your obligation, but of the press and my friend here."" Watson snorted silently.

"It makes it easier to refer to the various crimes, Mr Holmes."

"Of course it does…" he muttered and grinned.

"Holmes, don't play games with me. I am a busy man. You have asked me here, now tell me what is the matter."

"Have you already examined the scene of crime?"

"Yes, I do indeed."

"Pray tell me what information you gathered there."

Lestrade told what he had seen there, and it proved Holmes was right. The body had been found, lying on the bed, with arms folded and eyes closed. Nothing new could be added from the Inspector.

"Thank you for coming, Lestrade. I shall see you later in Wimbledon?"

"I'm afraid, I will have finished my business there by then, Holmes.""

The addressed man gave a little start and looked at some uncertain spot on the ground.

""What a pity."" Said he; this time it was not possible to tell whether he was true or not.

""Why did you order him here Holmes?"" asked Watson after Lestrade had left. Sherlock did not respond.

""Holmes! You better talk to me, or I shall leave you to solve this case on your own!"", at this, Holmes finally looked at his annoyed friend. His eyes bore an expression, Watson had never seen before, and that could not be described easily. "Again, I fear I have to apologise, my friend. You seem to have disturbed my thinking." He lit himself another cigarette. "I tell you this as my intimate: I feel that this affair will require more strength than I can summon up. I need your assistance, Watson. More than I ever have before. Now I've said this, will you come with me?"

"Yes, of course, Holmes! I shall be there when you need me!"

"Excellent, excellent! My dear friend!" suddenly he took Watsons hand and shook and squeezed it, with all his strength, so overjoyed was he.

"I wish to examine the newspaper archive for further information, and then we shall travel to Wimbledon, to see our clients and the scene of crime before dinner. Agreed?"

"Agreed!" Watson cried, looking forward to dinner at the best restaurant in town.

* * *

The search in the newspaper archive was fruitless, and to admit, tiring for both men.

After two hours of search, Holmes gave up, with a cry. "Ahh! It's useless!" He sunk heavily into a chair. "Watson, I'm tired of this. Let us return home, and examine the crime scene tomorrow. I must send a telegram to the McLeod family, and then we can leave this place."

"But the body, Holmes? Insisted Watson.

"We can always examine it in the morgue. I trust the man who is working there. He is responsible for the good reputation of Wimbledon's morgue."

"The clients live in Wimbledon?"

"Yes Watson." He smiled wearily and added. "You know I have my methods."


	4. At Birmingham's

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: I have started a collaboration with a person who's got much more talent than myself ;) and I therefore shall give her some credit!**

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* * *

~4~

The evening came around quite quickly to Watson's delight. They both returned to Baker Street to change after their almost silent continued visit at the library. Holmes had hardly uttered a word unless it was to himself, save when he asked Watson for the time, which seemed quite an unusual request considering Holmes had his own watch adorning his waistcoat. Come to think of it, that was not the only reason Watson was worried. For once, Holmes was not waiting for him by the door, but vice versa.

"Holmes," Watson called up, fiddling with the brim of his hat. "There is a cab waiting. Are you alright?" There was a good few moments before there was a reply. However it was more of a clatter of objects then a reply.  
"Holmes?"  
"Yes, yes… I'll be with you in one moment. " Watson frowned and signaled to the cabby that they would be a while, when Holmes finally jostled down the stairs, shooting Watson a weak smile.  
"I could not find a pin to go with my cravat. Will this one do?" Watson leaned in to inspect it.  
"Seems fine. Here you are." He said, handing Holmes his hat and cane before signalling him out of the door. "We'll be late."  
"Fashionably." Holmes muttered, striding out to the cab and getting in, Watson following close behind.

* * *

Within half an hour they were seated and eating (perhaps less eating on Holmes behalf) in Birmingham's. No, Holmes was far to engrossed in other things to eat. The objects of his study were unknown to Watson, who occasionally looked up at his friend.  
"Are you not hungry Holmes?" He inquired, taking another forkful of his meal. Holmes shook his head and himself out of his rêverie.  
"Not particularly. But do not allow my loss of appetite ruin your own meal my dear man."  
Watson nodded. "I wasn't going to. I was just concerned, that is all." He stated, going back to his meal. "You would tell if you were feeling ill, wouldn't you Holmes?" He added. It was things like this that Holmes admired Watson all the more for. Of course, at times, his consistent inquiries of Holmes' health did bug the man to no end; nevertheless it was encouraging to know that the doctor cared.  
"Of course I would Watson. However, I believe I am suffering with something that cannot be cured, not at the moment anyhow."  
Watson raised an eyebrow… He was in no mood for riddles. "Well if you find out when, I'll be happy to help." But Holmes took no heed to these words, as he had fallen once again into his daydream. Everything was not as sharp to him at the moment. Other nonsensical ideas and thoughts occupied that great mind of his and he did not know how to be rid of them. Damn them clouding his better judgement.  
How long has it been now? Three weeks? No! Four. Four whole week of this. Pull yourself together Sherlock! No… do not look at him again! Perhaps something must have triggered this? What occurred four weeks ago? Think man think…  
A slight tap on his shoulder brought Holmes' train of thought to a stop.  
"Shall we go Holmes? " Watson suggested, though it was more of a command. "Oh do not worry; you can pay me back when we get to Baker Street."  
Holmes looked up at him and sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I am terribly sorry Watson."  
"There is no need to apologise Holmes. Look, let us go home, ask Mrs Hudson for a cup of tea and retire. What you need is a good night's sleep and I am prescribing it to you as your friend and doctor. I will not take no for an answer."

Holmes knew he wouldn't either. They were both stubborn but Watson more so, especially when it was his profession they were battling over.  
"Alright, alright doctor…" Holmes muttered, getting up and rolling his eyes.  
"And no attitude either."  
"And out comes the military man…"  
"Holmes."

* * *

Not long later, they were sat at their table in the warmth of 221b, waiting for Mrs Hudson to greet them with a pot of tea. Holmes sat puffing at a newly lit pipe while his friend browsed through the evening copy of The Times.  
"It appears Lestrade has released an official report on the Wimbledon murder case Holmes. Quite early, do you not think?" Watson asked. He received a grunt in reply.  
Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray laden with a tea pot, two cups and a plate of biscuits and placed it between the two men.  
"The biscuits are only there because Mr Holmes seems off," Mrs Hudson declared, patting her apron. "Whether he decides to eat them or not is for him to sort out." She headed for the door and Holmes gritted his teeth and sighed, to which Watson shot him a warning glare. Be polite and say thank you.  
"Thank you Mrs Hudson. I shall attempt to eat one if it means that much to you." Holmes said as Mrs Hudson opened the door and tutted. Watson put down his paper and took a sip of his tea, peering over at Holmes at times.  
"You look tired."  
"Yes, thank you for that splendid observation Watson. Your skills are advancing by the day."  
"You get snarky when you are tired." Holmes looked at him and nodded.  
"I know. I am sorry dear chap."  
Watson smiled. "Here, I'll take my tea upstairs with me so you can get off to bed." He picked up his cup and reached for a couple of biscuits, looking at Holmes for confirmation, which came in the form of a curt nod. They both stood up, making their ways to separate doors.  
"Goodnight. Do try and sleep."  
"I will try. Goodnight Watson."  
They parted, Watson to his room to change into his nightgown and sleep a rather pleasant sleep and Holmes to nestle himself, still donning eveningwear and boots, (sparing the pin. He wished not his life to end by him being impaled because he was foolish enough to forget to remove his tie pin. What a headline that would make in the morning papers!) between his sheets to sleep very little.


	5. Wimbledon

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* * *

~5~

The next morning brought an early round for Dr Watson. He awoke at five, dressed and pottered down to the study to smoke a pipe before he set off to visit his first patient of the day. He returned later for his breakfast to find Holmes splayed out across the sofa, emerged in a variety of books and papers.

"Morning Holmes, I trust you slept well... reasonably well." Watson chimed, seating himself at the table to tuck into his breakfast.

As Holmes remained silent once again, Watson went over to the sofa, and laid a hand upon his friend's forehead. His temperature seemed to be alright, but his breath and his pulse immediately quickened at the touch.

"Yes, I slept…" He paused to take a breath. "Slept fine… Well…" Obviously he was ill, what else could it have been? Watson sighed, and wanted to return to the table. Holmes; now his patient; could wait until the matter of breakfast was dealt with. When he looked over to the mantelpiece, he saw a sheet of paper, that hadn't been there the night before.  
"What is this Holmes?" the doctor examined it. "What? Why haven't you told me that there

was another murder at the McLeod's?"

Holmes looked towards where Watson had been directing, tossing a book to the floor "Oh… It wasn't important. No! It was… Is important. Sorry, I do not appear to be at my best today."

Watson eyes Holmes with suspicion.

The addressed man arched one brow. "Very much so, Holmes. Not to say, it is long since I have seen you in such a condition."  
Watson was referring to the yet unpublished case, he would name 'The Dying Detective.'  
"And even then, you were pretending to be ill." he shook his head. "You make me worry, my friend; seriously so."

Holmes smiled and shook his head. "I must just have a cold or something… Yes, anyway to the details of the McLeod's second victim!" He sat up, papers flying everywhere. "Letty Radcliffe, personal maid to Mrs McLeod."

"Were you right, Holmes? Was it a continuation of the "ritual"?"

"Going by the letter sent to me, yes, it appears so…" Holmes replied, flicking through a large hardback book. "Unfortunately, or more fortunately in our case."

"Holmes, I must protest! You should not investigate anything, in your state of health!"  
Watson paused, poured a cup of tea, added some milk, and handed it to Holmes.  
"Unless you don't prove me otherwise."

Holmes frowned and waved the cup away. "And how do I do that dear Watson?" He groaned, rubbing his hands across his face.

"Well you could start by drinking this tea. I shall go and get my medical bag. I left it downstairs.", said Watson, and vanished.

Down in the corridor, Watson sniffed with despair. There it was again: this longing. He was unable to describe, or even start to explain what it was; for the simple reason, that he didn't know himself.  
He knew that Holmes was not physically ill. His temperature was normal, and he didn't sweat. The only thing that was strange, was the man's pulse. Nothing else was wrong with him, of that he was certain. The real mystery was though, that Watson himself sometimes felt the same…

Holmes sighed. He was not ill and he knew that… But he could tell his friend the truth. He'd just have to act rational and as nothing was amiss. He reached for the tea that had been left on the only piece of visible floor. He sipped slowly to start, before gulping it down quickly; he did not care for it really.

The sight which greeted Watson as he returned into the living room, was Holmes, standing in front of the window, and staring down into the street. It was not at all new to the doctor. He found the empty cup and smiled.  
"Are you feeling better, Holmes?"

"Much better, thank you." Holmes muttered, his fingers curling around the curtains. He shot Watson a quick smile before turning on his heels. "We ought to take a visit back to the McLeod's."

Once again, the expression on Watson's face was doubtful. His eyes met Holmes'. For a long moment, a spell seemed to hang over the room. With every second, both their stares became more intense.  
It was John who finally cut the magic tie. "Well, I think we should go. I could not prevent you from going anyway, so I will at least come with you, to watch over your health."

"Watson, I am fine." Holmes assured. He made his way over to his friends and patted his shoulder. "Come along Watson, we have not a moment to lose!"

* * *

The home of the McLeod-family was a huge, old house with a beautiful garden. The sun was shining, and tinted the whole area in a wonderful golden colour.  
Whereas Watson was rather baffled at the sight, Holmes seemed to be rather unimpressed.  
"This house is remarkable!" uttered Watson under his breath.

"Hardly." Holmes muttered back, giving a squeeze on his companion's arm. "No, this is a very small house compared to many from it's era… Ah, Mrs McLeod!"

Watson was slightly huffed now, even if he knew that he should be used to remarks of this kind by now. "It still looks beautiful to me…" He murmured, hardly audible, before rushing over to their female client.  
"Good day, Mrs McLeod!"

"You can hardly call this a good day doctor…" Mrs McLeod remarked loudly,walking the rest of the distance towards them. "Now Letty, my maid Letty Radcliffe. Mr Holmes, you promised me closure, but another member of our house is dead, now explain what curse is upon my name?"  
Holmes let out a sigh and tilted his head to one side, his cane hitting against his boot. "Mrs McLeod," He began slowly. "I promised you closure, not protection. I am, no doubt, very sorry for your loss, however, I never promised you that you or your workers will be safe."

"Have you any idea as to who the murderer might be?" Obviously the woman was furious. "You should, or else, I cannot understand where your reputation comes from, sir."  
Only a second passed, but Watson could see something in Holmes' eyes that had never, in their intimate friendship, ever been there before: helplessness. Now, Holmes' talent for acting was vital.

"Mrs McLeod, please calm down. I… Understand you must be desperate for an answer and I am afraid I cannot supply that as of yet, which pains me as much as you." Holmes paused, his expression quite calm and somewhat understanding. "However," He added. "I have had this case in my hands for only a day. You must be patient, Mrs McLeod, and you will have your answer in time."

The woman took her time to answer. Also she tried to calm down; but succeeded only little. Her raging anger turned into fear within one second, and exposed what she had held back all the time- and yet it proved not to be all.  
"What…what about my husband, Mr Holmes? I accept, that you cannot guarantee our safety, but can you guarantee that…he…he will survive?"

Holmes frowned, shooting Watson a quick glance. "Survive?" Holmes asked. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'm well aware that the victims of these vicious, murderous attacks have always been people of our staff, God rest their souls, but…" she sighed. "I'm afraid these…" She almost spat the words out. "Monsters will not murder any member of my family; especially my husband."

"Whoever this is, they are building fear. That is all." Holmes assured, placing a hand behind her, guiding her into the house. "I need to see what has happened."


	6. The Scent of Blood

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: I have started a collaboration with a person who's got much more talent than myself and I therefore shall give her some credit!**

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~6~

Inside, Holmes began to investigate, whereas Watson needed his time to handle the view; and above all: the intense smell of blood.

"Holmes! How can you not care about this dreadful smell! It is awful!" He coughed.

Sherlock had sprawled on the floor to examine some stains more closely.

"Oh, Watson, do not get me wrong; I do mind the smell, but I only take it as a sign of care, for the owners of this house have left everything as they found it..." he paused, sat up and, with a rather annoyed expression, he pointed at some footsteps. "Even though the police have ruined more evidence than I expected them to."

A figure appeared in the fame of the door; standing too close behind Watson, to be truly comfortable.

"Ah! Mr. –Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson." The man nodded at both of them.

"How is the investigation going? Have you found any suspects yet?"

"I am afraid not, Mr. McLeod." Answered Holmes.

The owner of the house, nodded again, and let out a sigh, which strangely was followed by a soft smile. "Ah, well. I hope you...you will find him soon, Mr Holmes. I really do."

"I shall too examine the room where the second murder has taken place, and then things will present themselves to us in a different light. "

"Indeed so, Mr Holmes." Watson could not help but noticing, that this man; Mr McLeod, must have been crying, and was about to do so, any moment again. He cleared his throat noisily. "Well…ugh, gentlemen. I must-must tend to my wife. You will find us in the hall if you need any further information."  
John heard Holmes mutter something, before closing the door.  
"Well, Watson; what do you make of this?"  
"Umm…well, to be honest, Holmes, I did have the time to observe anything of importance…"

"Hmm. Tend. 'I must tend to my wife…'" Holmes said to himself. He wandered around the room a couple of times, dropping to the floor occasionally to examine the carpet. "No. No, no, no… No I cannot do anything with this. I need to see the other room and then I can fathom the truth."

After Holmes had suddenly dashed off to the other room, there was nothing left for Watson, than to follow. He was not at all contented with what he had seen, as well as with what he knew would follow.

The maid's room was, of course, less comfortable than the butler's; only one small table, one chair and a wooden chest opposite the bed, where the corpse was lying. The smell of blood was present; almost stronger than in the previous room, although there were no stains to be seen in the entire room. Lilies had been placed almost decoratively across the room; most of them still looked fresh. Only some slowly started to fade. The body itself was adorned with a crown of various flowers. Her hands were neatly folded. A little, silver object reflected the light from between her middle- and her ring-finger: it was a sliver coin, with a lily embossed on either side.  
"Holmes!" exclaimed Watson with fear. "This is horrible!"

Holmes nodded, stood in the door and (what some may say) admired the view. "That it is Watson. That it is…" He muttered, patting his friend's shoulder and pushing his way over to the body. "Watson, I need a time of death and method, if you can determine it."

Watson blinked his daydream away. "Certainly, Holmes." Also he went over to the body to examine it. After a while of touching and lifting the body, he returned to Holmes; addressing him. "She died about seven hours ago…Holmes…I am not sure she was killed in this room. It is to say, quite impossible. She has been stabbed in the back quite often, the poor, poor girl…"

"Of course… There is little blood on the sheets." Holmes muttered as he moved the body to look at her back. "So where were you killed? Why did they kill you? Why did /she/ kill you?"

Watson was alarmed. "You-you know who the murderer is, Holmes?"

His friend shook his head. "No. I just know it is a woman."

"How do you know that?" Watson said in amazement, after once again inspecting the room, in case he had overlooked something he should have seen.

"The care." Holmes said, turning to face him. "Both victims have been treated with care. Care usually suggests a parent or, more likely in this case, a woman. Look at the way the room has been decorated… Lilies everywhere. What do lilies represent Watson?"

"Well- I am rather unversed in the field of- um- flowers and their meaning, but aren't lilies often found as a symbol for purity and virginity?"

"Exactly." Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. "Watson, I need you to talk to Mr and Mrs McLeod and ask them how long both of these victims have been in there household and if they had any partners. This isn't a crime of passion… It's about sex and purity."

"You mean this is the work of a fanatically religious woman?"  
Watson whispered sharply as they made their way into the hall, where the couple and some of the staff were waiting. "I am well aware that the murderer is a woman. I shall not give too much away, I wish not to scare her if she is amongst us. However, I wish to speak with all the staff and, eventually you, Mr an Mrs McLeod." Holmes said with a smile. "I will talk to you all individually, starting with you." He pointed to the cook. "I'm afraid we'll have to borrow the dining room… Come along now!" Within seconds, Holmes had disappeared, leaving everyone else quite flustered with many of their own questions.

As he saw them, Mr McLeod immediately sprang to his feet.  
"Mr Holmes! Have you now reached any conclusions? You said that you would be able to provide any news, after examining the maid's room!", but he was being ignored, by Sherlock Holmes.


	7. A turning point and a disappearance

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a collaboration with a person who's got much more talent than myself and I therefore shall give her some credit!**

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~7~

Watson clenched and unclenched his right hand. Interviewing every member of the staff and the two clients who lived on these premises, had taken about three hours; and they had all said the same: almost nothing of any value to the great Mr Holmes. The doctor looked over to where his friend was standing and smoking.  
"Holmes, I am weary of this. My hand hurts up to my shoulder. I wish we would just return to Baker Street for now. You can think the matter over there just as well, can you not?"

Holmes opened his mouth, letting out a plume of smoke leave him. "You're probably right." He muttered, putting out his cigarette out in the ashtray. "Someone knows something though. I know that much, but who, I do not."

The whole ride back to Baker Street, John felt the extreme tension between them. It was as if Holmes was angry at him, and yet, something wanted to make him come closer, and closer, and ever closer to his friend to feel the warmth of his body; to smell the strong smell of tobacco and pomade. But there wasn't a chance. It was madness! This could not be true! Was John Watson one of those…creatures?  
Had John Watson finally fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes?

Noticing the gaze on him, Holmes turned to face his friend. "What are you looking at?" He snapped, frowning.

John was taken aback. Even his breath stopped for a second. He could not move. Had he been staring again? He hadn't noticed! He knew that Sherlock Holmes could be fierce, but never like this…  
Thoughts like this rotated wildly in his head. Half a minute must have passed, until he was able to reply at all. "A-At nothing. I am sorry Holmes."

Holmes looked away quickly, clearing his throat. "Good…"

Of course, neither of the two men muttered as much as a word, during the rest of the journey. Even when they returned to Baker Street, the silence was sustained.

Watson was the first to speak again, when they were back in their living room. "Holmes…I-I am sorry. But-" he sighed heavily, "but I fear there is something I have to tell you…"

"What is it? I am rather occupied with other things Watson," Holmes said, sound as aggravated as he had in the cab. "Mrs McLeod's faith in me has already diminished, I need not more of it to. Is it about the case?"

"No. No, it is not. But it is just as important! Our friendship depends on the confession I need to make!" John became aware of the lack of attention, on part of Sherlock Holmes. "Our lives may depend on it! Holmes would you listen to me!"  
Watson stared at Holmes, his expression also filled with anger now. What he saw in Holmes' face though, did not improve the situation. The detective seemed to stare right though him, as if he were a ghost; his eyes, filled with…what was that…? Fear? No. What Watson saw there, was something between fury and panic. An emotion he would again see on what he later would call, "the adventure of the devil's foot".  
But he did not care. He needed to say this. Straight forward. Now. "I love you, Holmes!"

For a moment, Holmes could swear his heart stopped. He couldn't breathe or think or do anything, except splutter out "Pardon?"  
Surely Watson would not be so cruel as to play such an awful trick and say… Say what Holmes had wanted to hear for so long.

Now Watson himself had not prepared himself, to repeat those words; those words, usually pure and sweet; those words that sounded so damnable now; for they meant certain death, either of his reputation or of himself, if anyone knew. But it was over now. He'd said it. Holmes knew.  
"I-love-you." he repeated; his voice only mocking false strength. He had none left; for he was certain, that Holmes would not feel the same.

Holmes sighed, looking at the strong hands grasping at his arms. "Well, I must say this is very unexpected." Holmes whispered, avoiding Watson's eyes at all costs. "Very unexpected."

"I think…I think it's best if we parted company. I will leave tomorrow morning. You have been the very best of friends, Holmes. For that I thank you…", Watson almost whispered. Then, he placed a soft kiss on Holmes' lips; who was too startled to move.

"No," Holmes murmured, his hands now moving to Watson's arms. "No, I do not want you to go…" Of course, he had no idea how this concept worked. Love and how to express it was not something Sherlock Holmes had bothered and even thought about learning about. So all he could do was mimic. He leaned down to kiss Watson back, perhaps a little more forceful than his friend had before. Of course, Watson had never even dreamed about this! Yes, the whole situation, now felt so unreal to him, that he just permitted himself to dream on, and lay his arms on Holmes' back.  
Another kiss. Now, even more passionate. Watson felt Holmes' hands on his own back.

And so soon were Holmes hands running through his hair. He could not stop. He wanted more. They broke, momentarily for a breath, for only momentarily. Watson wrapped his arms around Holmes' neck. He didn't want to let go of him ever again. With every blink of an eye; with every other kiss, his fears vanished. They could hunt him down and torture him; they could put the noose around his neck; they could do whatever they liked to him, as long as he had this man; Holmes; as long as this moment, was more than a mere dream. It was an usually feeling, Holmes thought. For so many years, they had lived quite normally, in content, each providing each other with different needs. Watson providing company to Holmes and Holmes providing distraction for Watson. But now all that had been thrown out of the window… Now things would never be the same. Watson felt a sudden change in Holmes' mood. If he was not mistaken, the emotion he sensed was unease. He stopped for a moment, look deeply into these intense, light-green eyes, to seek confirmation. Their eyes met; but only for a second, because there were steps near the door. The two men parted as quick as lightning; just before the door opened. Mrs Hudson frowned at them as she entered, placing the tray holding there dinner down on the table. "My word, you two are both quite flushed. Are you alright?" She asked.

Blushing crimson, both stared at the intruder. It was only old Mrs Hudson.

Watson cleared his throat. "Ahhh! Dinner! I'm starving! Thank you Mrs Hudson. You see, Holmes and I just- just had a little argument. That is all. Nothing…you need to worry about." The woman tutted and shot Holmes a glare. "Mr Holmes, no doubt you are the starter of this fire… I don't want an inferno so you ought to patch up." She said, wandering out of the room.

Not expecting any answer (and also not getting one) Mrs Hudson laid the table, and went back downstairs. When everything was silent again, Watson disengaged himself from the trance he had fallen into. The room was silent. The door closed. Sherlock Holmes was gone.


	8. Moon, Stars, Blood

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a collaboration with a person who's got much more talent than myself and I therefore shall give her some credit!**

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~8~

Watson had retired for the night some three hours ago, but sleep did not want to come. Only one hour before Sherlock Holmes' return, the doctor managed to finally drift off into the land of dreams.

Watson woke to a smell he knew all too well; but which was surprisingly different to the omnipresent smell of tobacco in the house. It was the sweet smell of pomade, mixed with musk and a little sweat. Something soft and warm was curled up next to him; stole valuable space in his small bed. In his sleepy state of mind, he tried to push it away; win his own land back. There also was a sound…it was…breathing. Watson turned around, opening his eyes for the first time; just to find Sherlock Holmes curled up next to him: fast asleep.  
He didn't know whether to just push the other man out of his bed immediately, because of disgust and anger; or to indulge in yet another kiss, because of the sheer joy over his companions return, that filled him at the same time.  
And there they were again, the memories from two nights before. And with the memories came the anger.

"Holmes! Holmes, wake up! You've gone too far now!" It was hard to wake Holmes up, once he was asleep. Watson had to push and shake him quite a while until he was capable of listening to what was said.  
"I wish to know where you have been for two days now? And you also did not offer any such thing as a word to what I have said, and what has happened in the night we last saw each other!"

"I-I did not think it would matter." Holmes said with a yawn.

"Of course it does, Holmes! I confessed my innermost feelings to you; and what do you do? You ran away; leaving me behind, not knowing where you are, or when; or come to that IF you return! I said it to you, because I wanted to know what to do! What will become of us now? You told me not to leave, but you also did not tell me to stay!" Watson was not aware that he was shouting at the man, he had formerly called his friend. "What is your opinion of all this!?"

Holmes buried his face in his hands. "Do you think I am not scared? Do you think I'm not afraid of what will become of...of...you and of me- of US? Because I amWatson; I terribly am!"

John had to admit, that he had never even thought about Sherlock's feelings. Until this moment, it had all been about him; his reputation; his life and so on. But never had he once gave a though to Holmes; that he might also be scared of what was to become of them or of himself, was too strange a thought. He always fell on the feet. Holmes could escape from prison; could trick the most dangerous criminals. He always stayed safe.  
"Oh, Holmes…I had no idea-" but he was cut off, by a long index-finger on his lips.

"So what do you suggest, we should do?"

Watson inhaled. He didn't know.  
"It is best we keep doing what we did before. Now…that we are aware of what is the matter." he paused for a moment. "It still is very good to wake up next to you. Thank you for returning home safe, Holmes." Both men chuckled.  
"I was being serious Holmes. Let us return to what was before. Just for now; just until this case is solved. Have you made any progress in the time day you were gone?"

"No. To be true, I was too busy sorting out my own thoughts...and feelings than to think about the case. But what I already found out before, is, that our killer is religiously motivated."

"Religion?" asked Watson."This is very unusual…What steps will you take next?"

"I have planned on luring the killer, using...Mr. McLeod as a bait. It seems there is more behind it, my dear chap. The Butler, Brightsmith, was Mr. McLeod's lover."

"Mr. McLeod is…Hooollmmess! This is too much! How did you know that again?"

Watson exhaled noisily.

"Oh it was an easy deduction to make, Watson. For me , it was obvious, because the of the husband's behaviour. He did not really "care" about his wife, but he "tended" to her, for it was the right thing to do in this situation. And he had cried, because he was still grieving over his Butler's, and his lover's death."

"Holmes, are you saying that the murderer only kills…" the words were stuck in John's throat. "But it's impossible! The second victim was a woman…Oh. I-I understand. What do you want me to do, Holmes?" determination returned to Watson's face.

Holmes' eyes gleamed with excitement, but also sadness was in them. "I only need your moral support. And your Army Revolver!"

"Certainly, Holmes! You can count on me!"

"Splendid, Splendid, my man!" cheered Holmes.  
"What time is it?" he asked after a while. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson has gone out already; and our breakfast has become cold. We should take in some food, before starting this dangerous task. This is also for you, Holmes. Take it seriously; for once."  
He shot Holmes a smile, and poked him.

"Ow! Watson, I am always," Holmes paused to look at Watson. "Most definitely," He grinned. "Very serious. Come on, I ought to change out of these clothes… I don't even know what that is on my waistcoat."

Down, at the breakfast table, the doctor helped himself to cold, scrambled eggs, and some (somewhat warm) tea. He hoped Holmes would do the same, once he had finished changing his clothes. "Ah, there you are, Holmes!" Watson smiled brightly. "You look splendid, dear chap!"

"Thank you Watson." Holmes said with a smile. "I feel it to… Oh, non for me thank you." He strode over to the fireplace and reached for a pipe, stuffing it with tobacco. "Two days without a smoke is not never good."

Watson shook his head. His friend refused to eat again. How long had he lived on nothing now? Three days? Perhaps four. "After that you've finished this pipe, you need to come over here and eat something. I do not care if you have solved this case, if you starve yourself to death! I value you too much for that." His voice was almost threatening at the beginning, but softened with every other word; until it was more of a plea, than a command. Holmes turned to face him with a sigh and a lick of his bottom lip. "You're rather insistent. What if I don't?"  
Holmes, ever the man to push the doctor over the edge.

"I cannot force you into eating, but let this be said: I-I love you, and I need you alive. To experience your death once, was dreadful enough. I do not know what I should do, if you would not come back for once." Watson looked intensely into his friends' eyes. "So please, Holmes, sit down and have breakfast with me."

Holmes nodded. "I suppose I will need the energy." He muttered, wandering over to the table, slouching down in the chair.

Watson nodded contentedly.  
"So what will be our next step, Holmes?"

"We need to go over our notes, make some deductions." Holmes said, sending a plume of smoke surround his head. "The sooner we get a better understanding of our killer, the better."  
"Have you informed the McLeod's about our coming?" asked Watson quickly.

"No, I reckon we should surprise them."

And when the sun was about to set, the two inhabitans of 221b Baker Street, left their cozy home; not knowing what danger was to come. Having packed as little luggage as possible, they were now seated in a small cab. Their thighs touched. Three days ago, this might not have concerned Watson at all (you must remember, dear reader, that they had been only friends then), but now; after all that had happened, he began to feel uneasy. He turned away from Holmes, in order to avoid his glance as well as his touch.

Holmes smiled a little, looking down at where their thighs touched. "Are you alright?" He asked Watson after a while, shaking his head. "You seem a little tense."

"Yes…y-" he stopped and thought for a moment. "No! In truth, I am not. I am confused Holmes! Terribly confused! And-and…I wish you would, try not to touch me in this manner; not even out of habit or whatever reason you may give. As I will myself refrain from doing so." Watson uttered, before he let out a loud and long sigh.

Holmes frowned and leaned back looking out to the street. "Alright… I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable Watson. It was an experiment."

Watson did not know, what it was that upset him so much; but there was something in these harmless words, which made Watson give a start. "An experiment?! What kind of experiment were you conducting?! Bringing us both in severe trouble?!"

"Watson, it was simply a gesture. I did not know it would affect you so. You know I am quite new to this whole affection concept… Forgive me, I just thought it was the correct thing to do."

Holmes sighed and turned away, feeling a little hurt. Watson was right however, he should not be so foolish.  
"Holmes, I think it better, if we didn't talk until we've arrived. I beg you to heed what I have just said. I am, as you are, and correctly uttered just the previous moment, too new to feeling such a thing as love towards another man; towards you. Please, give me some more time to over think matters. Just this hour Holmes. Thank you." With these words, Watson turned away again, and said nothing, for a long, long while.

They arrived, unexpected at the McLeod's in no time at all and Holmes explained the situation and what he had planned.

The light had already faded; the night was clear and starry. Most people would have called this view, beautiful or even romantic. A perfect moment for a kiss. Not so John Watson; he was too paralysed by his own thoughts, that he was not able to function as usual.

He, Holmes and Mr and Mrs McLeod were sat in the smoking-room in silence. Holmes had gone through his plan, telling them his needed Mr McLeod in a room of his own. Of course, he did not tell them the exact reason for this. He had already irritated Watson and he wished not to do the same to anyone else besides the murderer.

Despite he was still angry with Holmes, Watson; the military man, listened carefully to what was said, and accepted orders from him. After all, he had come here to do just that.

It turned out that Watson's part would be the same as it had been so many times before: Wait for the murderer, and if the slightest suspicion is aroused; chase after them, and shoot if necessary. After Holmes had finished, every other person in the room left for where Holmes had told them to go. Now it was only the two of them again; Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

They both avoided any eye contact, any contact at all. Their whole situation was unclear on both sides and neither of them knew what to do. "We ought to go to our rooms." Holmes said quietly, moving from where he as stood by the fireplace. "We can do nothing until our killer strikes."

Watson watched his friend who was almost out the door, and suddenly everything changed. How could he possbily have been so stupid as to say what he had said when they were on their way to this house. But it was too late; he couldn't just with three words spirit the blockade away he had built himself. Or could he? "Holmes!" Watson sprang to his feet. Words of apology and vows of eternal love came to his head but they all naturally lead to only one conclusion: it was over. "-Good luck." Watson said in the end, rather silently.  
Holmes nodded and smiled. "You too." He muttered, leaving Watson to himself, alone. Very soon, everything was to come together. they would solve the case and then what? Could they carry on the way they had done for so long? Or would they have to part? It was something neither of them wanted and yet it seemed an awfully likely possibility.

The hours went by. One by one; tormentingly slowly. Watson had retired to the room he had been given, was now reading a book; his army revolver waiting at the bedside table. In the background, the clock struck one. The tender toll, passing Watson's consciousness; so engrossed was he, in his book and his own thinking.

Holmes was in a similiar state, however, he paced up and down. He wasn't surprised if the whole household could not hear his footsteps. He smoked a pipe and another and another, waiting for a sound or something to indicate he could spring into action.

The clock struck 1:15 in the morning; but it was not the distant ringing, that alarmed the doctor, but the voices he heard out on the lawn. Quickly, he gabbed his revolver, and followed the sound. 1:15, a time Watson would never forget again, for the rest of his long life.

A lamp in one hand, and the weapon in the other, he found himself pacing across the lawn; trying to produce as little noise as possible.  
Ah! There it was again! It sounded like…two persons! They were arguing over something…what it was exactly, he could not hear, but he was sure that there must be two women. It had to be the murderers, of that, John was sure. He lifted his hand; the cone of light suddenly revealed a dreadful sight: A lady, with wild eyes stared back at him; and so was a polished, black gun.

It was the second gunshot that spiked something in Holmes. One was a warning, two was a killing. Watson never shot to kill. Never. With this knowledge in mind, Holmes ran from his room to where the noise had come. And there he found it. A sight he would not wish upon anyone, not even Professor Moriarty. There lay Watson, bleeding out on the carpet, from his wounds, from his mouth. For a moment, Holmes thought his heart had stopped. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe… He dropped to his knees beside his friend, resting him on his lap. Blood seeped through his shirt and covered his hands as he pressed them against the holes in Watson's chest.

Everyone in the house had heard the shots and came out of their rooms to see what was the matter. They had been told, that they were allowed to do so, for the matter would be over by then. But nobody had predicted to saw what was there. A bleeding man, and the detective, holding him.

Time had stopped the moment the first bullet had entered his body. There was pain everywhere, and the sharp, horrid taste of metal. The metal…it was not good; even though, he knew somehow, in his fading senses, that it was vital. He had go get rid of it! Watson coughed and spat out the liquid. There was a shape. A man. Warmth suddenly filled Watson's body; but it was different to the burning heat of the pain. He felt sorry. The figure knelt down beside him; carefully bringing Watson into an almost upright position. A smell entered the dying man's nostrils. What was it? It was not blood…not sweat…not perfume…it was tobacco and pomade. Suddenly everything made sense again! Watson managed to open his eyes. Holmes!  
"It's all too…familiar to me." The doctor said with a weak voice. "I am sorry, my dear."

Holmes shook his head. "No." He choked. "No, I won't let you." He held him close, rocking him gently. "You can't. Don't be selfish. Just… Just think of the future… Me and you in a cottage, with bees." Holmes laughed, trying to wipe the blood from Watson's mouth. His friends eyes closed and he shook him. "You can't leave me alone again. I need you John."

Watson couldn't speak anymore. One reason was, that he was so touched, by Holmes words, that he also would have liked to cry. But he couldn't. It was too great a risk, for it required more energy than he had left. Holmes words had also filled him with determination: He couldn't be so selfish, as to just die here and now. There were more beautiful times waiting for them. So Watson dreamed on; drifting off into their own little world; where they could do whatever they wanted, not having to care about the law, or their reputation. And as he thought, and dreamed, John did not even notice that he had faded into unconsciousness, and was now carried away by other doctors, and on his way to the best hospital in town.


	9. The ABC of love

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: This is a collaboration-project with a person who's got much more talent than myself and I therefore shall give her some credit!**

**You can find her here: u/5026047/an-ounce-of-shag-tobacco**

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**Additional note: Please forgive the many flaws, but it has become too much to correct easily.  
We hope you can understand.**

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~9~

They were just in time to save Dr Watson, only just and even two days later his survival was unsure when he still hadn't awoken. Holmes had hope… He knew his friend was strong. He had stayed by Watson's side throughout the whole ordeal, save when the doctors needed to extract the lead from his chest. What else could Holmes do? He could not just return back to Baker Street and act as if nothing, leaving Watson lying in a hospital having his dressings change ever few hours. No. He could not desert him at such a time.

First, there was nothing; neither memory, nor sound or smell. Where John Watson had been, it was too black for darkness. It was simply nothing. Endless. Black. Neither cold nor warm. Neither painful nor comfortable.  
Then, there were dreams. The manlike, black angel who had saved his life had returned; keeping him alive in speaking words of reassurance to him in a language he couldn't understand. The language of the angels? It seemed so unreal; distant, faint, beautiful. As if it had never happened. Slowly the dreams turned into sounds. Voices, steps pacing up and down the room. Then there was darkness again; but this darkness differed very much from the previous one, for it was more real; it was graspable. The beautiful voice of the black angel kept talking to him; making John want to open his eyes, but he couldn't. The lids were too heavy! Lids? Where there are lids there must be eyes, and where there are eyes, there must be a body! Body. Body. Something heavy lay on…where? Legs? On his…legs. Those eyes were still out of order. Tiredness. Sleep. Good old sleep.

John Watson awoke. Smell was new to him; as was reason. There was a world around him. He was in a hospital. What had happened? Ah. Yes. Of course. A fanatic madwoman had shot at him.  
Watson began to dread this queer man whom he had called friend; and possibly even lover. He had wished to have him by his side when he came back; this black angel from his dreams (for he now was sure it must have been Holmes), and not investigate some other- there suddenly was a smell. Comforting and familiar; even if not utterly pleasant. It smelled like…old tobacco, sweat, musk and…pomade. That was Holmes' smell! Oh how glad Watson was to see him!  
Ah. His eyes were finally open.

"I-I dreamed of you, Holmes."  
Watson uttered. His voice was weaker than he had imagined it to be. Every breath hurt a little.

Holmes was slumped in a chair beside where Watson was resting. He was fiddling with something in his hand. A coin? No, a token. He glanced over at the figure in the bed, not noticing his eyes were open.

Holmes looked up from his study, a strangled cough came from him. "Watson? Watson you're awake!"  
He stood up, perching himself next to John on the bed, taking one of his hands discreetly.

A reflex told him to pull back his hand, but his brains convinced Watson, that all was well, and so he just let it happen.  
"How long-long have I been here already?"

Holmes looked down at the watch hanging from his waist. "Two days, four hours and twenty seven minutes."

The sound that came from Watson's throat was something between a sob, a cough and a laugh.  
"Heh- I take it you have never left my side for a minute."  
He smiled, and his gaze wandered down to their entwined hands.  
"I am so sorry, Holmes. I should not have said the things I did, before we went to Wimbledon. There were moments, when I was afraid, that we would never talk again."

Holmes let out a chuckle and shook his head. "There was no need. You were right, I need to be more careful in my advances." There was a pause. "I thought I was going to lose you."

Watson again recalled the angel in the black dress.  
But it was you who kept me alive… he thought to himself.  
Instead of saying anything, John just squeezed his friend's hand a little tighter. This time, it really was a laugh; clearly distinguished from any other sounds; that escaped Watson's throat.

Holmes smiled and looked down at their hands. "I suppose you will need some help to do the usually quite easy tasks when we get back to Baker Street?" He said.

"If I should ever be allowed to return home at all! You're indeed right, Holmes…I shall need some help. Do you think Mrs Hudson would-" but he was shushed by Holmes.

"No not at all. She's observant but not enough to credit her." Holmes muttered with a shake of his head. "I'd prefer to have at Baker Street. I can nurse you if it is necessary."

Holmes eyes gave him away. They spoke of more than just necessity. Watson saw more in them, than he had seen on any scene of crime; on any chase or act of (in) justice he had ever had the honour to accompany this man. There was love, infinite kindness, and a longing.

"I would not know a second person whom I'd like to give this task more. But we must be careful."  
Watson grinned and gently kissed Holmes's hand, after securing that nobody was there to see it.

Holmes smiled and nodded. "I shall fetch a doctor and order him to allow you home. I shall get Mycroft the intervene if he does not agree!" He let go of John's hand, rushing to the door. "I shan't be long."

Half an hour passed, until Holmes finally returned. Half an hour, Watson could use to collect his thoughts and sink into a daydream; this time, there was no darkness at all.

"They said you can come back with me as long as I follow strict instructions." Holmes, closing the door behind him with one hand and waving a rather long letter with the other. He smiled, passing the note to Watson for examination. "Is that to your expectation? I trust your medical knowledge more then any of these oaths and they charge almost double you do…"

"Ummm…yes. Very much so…but I would very much like to have some rest before we leave. Even if I am very keen on returning to Baker Street."  
After two hours of rest, they tested if Watson could walk at all; and he could! He himself, explained it with his military past, by saying that he was trained to bear discomfort.  
Also the journey itself went very well. And then there it was: their good old home. Watson's eyes gleamed with delight as he saw the black door with the golden figures on it. 221b. His lucky number.

Holmes helped him off the hansom as Mrs Hudson appeared at the door, beckoning them both into the warmth of 221b. "My goodness look at the two of you!" She exclaimed, shutting the door behind them and taking their hats. "I was so awfully worried doctor. It was the elder Mr Holmes that me know of your condition. He," She pointed to Holmes. "Did not let me know."

"Mrs Hudson, you must understand that Mr Holmes was as worried as you were about my health. Please, do not take it too seriously." Watson said with the kindest of smiles.

Mrs Hudson tutted and patted the two men up the stairs. "I shall bring you your dinner later. Do not be working Dr Watson up Mrs Holmes!"  
Holmes rolled his eyes and linked his arm with Watson as they carried on up the stairs.

Watson took a deep breath. To him it felt like years had passed until he entered this room. He sunk into his chair, breathing heavily.  
"Ow. Holmes would you please put on the fire, dear?"  
Watson regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. He blushed. "Good god, I am so sorry Holmes! I didn't mean to-" again Holmes cut him off.

Holmes chuckled and grinned. "It is fine…" He paused for a moment to find a word to match Watson's. "Darling." He settled on, lighting a fire and a pipe, before sitting himself in his own chair.

"We were right, I suppose." Watson said after a while of silence. "It won't ever be as it has been before. We should just… live with it." He shrugged, causing pain in his chest. "Argh."

Holmes looked over at him with a frown. "I hope that's not a problem for you?" He pondered, sucking at his pipe every so often.

"I have to admit that it has been, but since this murderous attack was committed on me, I see things differently. I realised what was truly important in my life; too important to just die: It was to love you."

Holmes smiled, as he leaned back in his chair. "You are being awfully soppy." He said quietly. "I'm not sure how to respond to you in this love dazed state."

Watson almost shrugged again; but the memory of the pain kept him from doing so. Instead he just smiled back. "I can't help but being in love with you. Pray tell me, have you reached any conclusion in the case, while I was unconscious? Have you caught this dreadful creature?"

Holmes nodded, raising his head releasing his lungs of smoke towards the ceiling, where it danced in the light of the fire. "The coachman and the stable boy chased her down the garden. Lestrade hasn't told me much more than that…" He stopped when he noticed Watson watching him. "What?"

"I was just thinking…before we confessed our love…have you ever thought about us…being…you know…together? If there were more than just sweet words and verbal flowers? Something darker. Something…more serious; if you understand what I am on about."

"I didn't know you could be so cryptic Watson. I am far too tired for trifles this evening, pray, could you say that again without the poetry?" Holmes said with a raised eyebrow.

Watson blushed. Of course. Holmes had probably never learned about or just forgotten the human way of…committing love. He looked around if anyone was there to hear it. Everything was safe. He inhaled and exhaled nervously. "I wanted to know if you ever spent a thought on…" he paused. It was too comical to be true. "…Physical love."

For a man like Holmes, who could tell you the date of ancient Cornish pottery or recite all the M's in his index, the prospect of him not knowing how humans showed love was almost unbelievable.

"Are you talking about… sex?" He whispered, leaning forward in his chair.

Watson nodded sternly.  
"Exactly that."  
He couldn't hold the grin back any longer, which had been hiding behind his facial muscles since he realised that Holmes would not understand a single word. The expression on his vis-á-vis was just too amusing.  
"So, have you ever given any thought to that?"

Holmes was a little lost for words. "W-well, I don't think so… Why h-have you?" He stuttered, looking slightly worried.

Foolishly Watson had not prepared himself to be asked back.  
"Well…" he gave in to his emotions. "To- to be honest…yes. On the odd occasion. In times…when…when you were away…and…and I was…you know…" he rubbed the back of his head. "Lonely."

Holmes nodded and placed his pipe down on a pile of books, standing up and going to Watson's side "Do you need a bath?"

There was a spark in Holmes' eyes. Something dangerous…a look he only had when he was on a case that pleased him; gave him joy.

"Coming to think of it, I could rather use one, yes. But you need to help me up…and out of my clothes."

Holmes smirked. "After dinner. Wouldn't want to rouse suspicion now, would we? I wouldn't mind stealing one of those delicious kisses from you in the mean time."

Mrs Hudson served the best meal either of them had tasted in months; all with the finest ingredients, to celebrate the doctor's return. Watson was sure that she would have asked him out, if she was just some years younger (or perhaps also if he was some years older).

After the meal, the inhabitants of 221b Baker Street returned to their favourite chairs; forgetting what had been talked of before dinner. There was mostly silence; eyes met, and they were keen and filled with a forbidden desire. Perhaps it was not true at all. Perhaps neither of them had forgotten what had been said.

Holmes smiled, his fingers fiddling with a lose thread on his waist coat. "Did you enjoy your meal?" He asked.

Watson looked up from the book he was reading.  
"Yes. Yes, indeed I have; very much so! Mrs Hudson has outdone herself today! I take it you have also enjoyed it? At least you have eaten something."

"I just grateful you forced me to eat before we head off to the McLeod's," Holmes replied standing up and going to the door. "Otherwise I'd not be in the best of states now."

Watson wore a smug look. After a little pause he asked.  
"Holmes?"

Holmes turned round to face him, his head tilting to one side. "What is it Watson?"

The smugness on his face turned into something that could be dubbed teasing or even seduction. "I think I am ready to take a bath now:"

Holmes grinned. "That's what I was just about to call for. Mrs Hudson! Could you be so kind as to draw Dr Watson a bath."

When the bath was finally drawn, and Mrs Hudson had gone, both men made their way into the bathroom. Standing in front of the tub, Watson cocked his head.  
"I'd kindly need your help now, Holmes." a smirk; and he felt his companion's rather cold fingers fiddling with his buttons. All of a sudden there was something else! Warm. Soft. A gentle kiss was placed on his lips.

It was quite a weird sensation for Holmes to have. The only body he had undressed was his own and Watson's buttons seemed a lot more fiddly than his. And what was that? Ah, a hand on his back. He smiled again Watson's lips as he got his waistcoat open.

Even though the kisses became ever more passionate, Watson felt how his clothes became less; and therefore lighter. Even as Watson had to sit down to get rid of his trousers, the kisses did not stop. The first time, he actually hesitated was, when he finally wore nothing but his underwear.  
He blushed a little and uttered between two heavy breaths, "The moment of truth."

Holmes pulled back to look at him with a frown. "Why a moment of truth?" He asked rather breathlessly, hands on Watson's hips.

"Because you will see what you have never seen before: me without my dressing." suddenly a suspicion formed in Watson head. "Have you Holmes?"

"No. No, I can assure you I have not. It will be like my birthday, what a surprise it shall be… Now come on and get in the bath before Mrs Hudson begins to think of things…"

Watson peeled off his underwear. To his great surprise, Holmes did not even fuss about it. He was as calm as the circumstances would allow it. The sponge was already near the bath tub, so Watson could reach it without any trouble. But before he wanted to commence the lavender-adventure, he required one thing: another kiss. For kissing can be like a drug: the first one is the most exciting one. After that, they become more and more exciting, until the two partners are addicted to it; but neither of them would ever get tired of doing it.

Watson leaned forward, grabbing Holmes' shirt. They kissed again. This time, it was a sweet kiss. Tender, like honey and milk.  
Suddenly, an idea formed in Watson's head. Yes it was there; just as innocent and childish as it could be and too quick to thought about. He kissed Holmes again; and with a single move of his sound arm, he pulled him into the bath tub.

Holmes spluttered about, his limbs flailing around a little as he was taken off guard. He rubbed his eyes of water a coughed before he started to laugh. "W-Watson…" He chuckled, burying his face in his friends neck. "My goodness…"

"You better get used to things of this sort." said Watson, wiping some drops of Water off Holmes' face, as he looked up again.

"Should I?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, reaching for the sponge and dabbing it gently on recently inflicted wounds on Watson's chest.

Watson winced a little bit. "Ow-"  
He did not say anything further, for he knew that an answer was redundant.

It took Watson a few months to recover properly. In that time, the papers had filled with rife on the whole business and the fact the women in question, a Miss Hargreaves had escaped her custody due to the innocence of a young Yarder. Holmes read the headlines with disgust. No doubt he'd be ask to sniff her out again. That case was boring now and the only good that had come out of it was his relationship with Watson.

Watson saw his friend's frown. He had not heard the news of the escaped woman yet; for he had been far too busy in the last few days to care about anything.  
"What is it Holmes?"

"Our killer has escaped thanks to some fool at the Yard." Holmes scoffed over the paper."

Watson stood up from his seat. He didn't want his friend to upset himself too much. His health was already weakened by so many things. Unsure how to get Holmes mind off the case, he gently took the newspaper from his hands, and put one of his own on the detective's cheek.  
"Do not worry my dear." Suddenly Watson remembered the things they had talked about when he had first returned to Baker Street after that terrible shooting, when the effects of the drugs had made his brain weak and his tongue loose. Not that he regretted as much as a single word he'd uttered that evening, but he was sure he wouldn't have dared to say it, without the help of the morphine in his body.  
He trembled shortly at the memory, and then continued,  
"There are much more important things to do."

Holmes leaned into the hand on his cheeks, sighing and closing his eyes. "What are those things may I ask?" He muttered.

Watson caressed Holmes' nose with his. A kiss followed; almost shy at first, as most of their kisses were before they dared to let their emotions run wild. Watson felt Holmes wince slightly as his moustache touched the other man's upper lip. "Things of importance. Things like…lessons in biology. And lessons in the law."

Holmes smiled and pulled Watson closer to him. "I have to find a mad women… I don't have time." He murmured, placing a hand on Watson neck. "I hate that you have to wait…" He was cut off by another kiss.

Watson felt the time for chatter was over. Action was the watchword now. He started to push Holmes' jacket off his shoulders.

Holmes tried to restrain himself to object, but four days without sleep or a case took it out of him and Watson had gained back his strength.  
"Watson… Don't you think… the sitting room is a little too public?"

"Well then let us continue elsewhere."  
Watson smirked seductively.  
"I even let you choose the room."

Holmes bit his lip. "I think your rooms. You have a bigger bed."

Watson grabbed Holmes' sleeve. He led him into his own room, as if he'd never walked this distance before. Arriving in the small room, he closed the door and then pressed Holmes against it with a thud. Now the kissing was continued; this time more forceful than ever. Suddenly Watson noticed that his companion was about to take the lead. Yes. This was familiar. That was what Watson had hoped for. This was what he knew, for Holmes always took the lead.

This time it was Watson's jacket being pushed from his shoulders and quick hands were at his waistcoat buttons. Of course, Holmes had taken his past weeks to research, so to speak and he had picked up a few things. He first began at Watson's neck, gentle kisses at first. Sod it if he left marks, the man could wear a high collar.

How-h-how d-could Holmes know? How had he found out about the-these certain spots?  
A hot flush raced through Watson's body. It felt good, but it took his breath away. Air! Where had the air in this room vanished to? It was impossible!

He tried to distract himself and take away his waistcoat.  
The chains of their watches clinked together, almost getting stuck; ironically joining their bodies.

Holmes chuckled as Watson blushed crimson and pulled him into a tight hug. "I'm glad that is pleasing for you." He whispered, burying his face in Watson's neck, grinning against is ear wickedly. "You are most red my friend… I could compare you to a tomato."

Watson almost fell into the hug. He let out a silent laugh before also whispered, "If this is so, the tips of your ears look like gleaming iron my friend."  
He began to massage Holmes' ears in irregular intervals. Hah. Now he hit the right spot.

Holmes let a little moan. "O-Oh really… Well, we ought to… you know…" He gestured at the bed.

With one single move, he opened the button of Holmes' pants.  
"Uh-un-help me out of my pants, and then…" he trailed off as Holmes went to his knees in front of him.

"On the bed." Holmes ordered, beckoning Watson to sit down.

Watson stumbled backwards, tripping over his trousers, sitting down on his bed. Adrenaline filled every fibre of his body now, as Holmes came over to him; standing tall, thin, dangerous, controlling in front of him. The time had come. Now they would finally commit the act, nobody in their age even dared to speak of. The act, people like them had been killed. The one act, which was all about life; but felt like dying a thousand deaths.


	10. Two Waches And A Dead Flower Girl

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* * *

~10~

It was quite a quick matter, although it felt as if time itself had slowed down by a considerable amount. The sex thing as a whole was a rather different sensation for Sherlock Holmes. It was rather hard for him to focus on one thing when so many had been placed before him and in the process he gained a slight headache. He'd need a way to switch off. But that nagging in his head was numbed by Watson's warm arm around him and a soft hand stroking through his hair. One thing nagged more now.  
"I could really do with a smoke."

Eyes half closed, Watson reached for his own cigarette case; intending to smoke one for himself too. Usually, he would have laughed at such an ill-timed remark this one, but not now. He was too tired, and too much in love. There were so many thoughts racing through his head; too many questions left unanswered. Suddenly he felt a hand, gently gliding over his wounds. First the shoulder, then down to the chest, where the two more recent injuries were set. He closed his eyes fully.

With his other hand, Holmes reached out for the cigarette case, taking it from Watson. "Your scars are beautiful." He muttered, retrieving two cigarettes for them both, placing one between the doctor's lips.

Watson opened an eye and cocked his head. "You think so? You would be the first person to say that…" He said, having taken the cigarette from his mouth.

"I doubt many people have seen them. That is unless you have been running shirtless down the street without me knowing." Holmes smiled and placed his own cigarette in his mouth. "Matches."

While he sent out his hand to hunt for the required object, Watson answered, "Yes. But there were people; mostly women, and other doctors who have seen them. None of the first mentioned persons ever said something like this to me." he paused and lit both their cigarettes. "I-I suppose, this in one of the many reasons, why I love you so much, Holmes."

"When you say mostly women…" Holmes paused to take a drag of his cigarette. "You gained your scar just before we met… By a couple of months at least. How many women did you have sex with while we have been living together?"

Watson froze. Over the growing love to his flat mate, and all the other recent events, he had forgotten completely. There were Sarah, Zylphia and…Mary. Yes. Mary had been the only one with real chances; there even were times when he thought about marrying her, but as if by accident, Holmes had always crossed his marrying-plans somehow.

"Three. I think… Yes, I'm sure now, that it was three. I hope you do not mind?"

Holmes shook his head. "Hardly. I just wondered. And why should it matter at all? It was in the past, you were lonely, looking for love; A life long companion. I can hardly blame you."

Suddenly it dawned on him. It was publicly known, that Sherlock Holmes, did not concern himself with such things as feelings, but now, Watson was not so sure anymore, if that was actually true. He turned, and faced the detective. "And what about you, dear? There must have been someonebefore me. There is no one who does not care about love."

Holmes sighed and turned to tap the ash from his cigarette on the bedside table. "There was the one time, in university…"

Watson nodded. "It did not work out then… Between you and her? Well, I am sorry." he exhaled, elegantly blowing the blue smoke towards the high ceiling. "But then again, I'm grateful for it." he smiled sweetly, stroking Holmes' chest

Holmes looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think it was a women?" He asked, filling his lungs again.

Watson was stunned. Indeed. Why hadn't he thought about this earlier? Holmes' aversion against women; the way he spoke of the other sex. The fact that he never had any kind of relationships with women. It should have told him all. He should have known it; because Holmes always watched him. Kept him safe. Cared about him. And only him. He should have deduced.

But then again, what did it matter now? They were together, and this was all he wanted for now. Yes, it seemed to him, that, if one could ever gain the love of Sherlock Holmes; one had the best and fairest love that could be given.

Holmes waved a hand in front of Watson's face. "Hello? Is John in? Still with me my man? You seem to have slipped into some reviere…"

Watson shook his head and smiled timidly. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I just thought about…well, about us. And-" he stretched himself and yawned. "And, I am terribly tired now. Let us go to sleep. You will stay here for the night, I take it?"

Holmes shrugged. "I am warm and my bed will be cold. I suppose I can stay here tonight…" He said curling closer to Watson. "I do not think you will have a nightmare. You flail and kick about awfully when you do and I do not fancy waking up on the floor."

Unfortunately, he had not heard so much as a word of what Holmes had said, for John Watson was already asleep.

Holmes sighed and smiled at the man lay beside. He stroked his hair, then his neck. How nice it was to have such contact with a another human. Holmes closed his eyes, pulling the sheets tighter around him, not long would he too fall sleep.

* * *

Watson was awoken by sunlight, birdsong, and the faint snoring of the other man is his bed. He rubbed his eyes. Sleeping in one bed with Holmes was something he would have to get used to. It was nice, cosy, warm and beautiful to wake up next to him.

"Speaking of beautiful…" Watson thought, and gently stroked the hair out of his-yes, it was accurate now- his sleeping lover's face.

Holmes shuffled a little to Watson's movements, not waking. Both his arms were tucked into Watson's side and to his own chest and his breath was warm on John's shoulder.

"But-but Holmes! What if Mrs Hudson-"

Holmes groaned and shot out an arm to grab Watson as he attempted to leave. "Don't move. You're warm and I'm tired." He muttered, his voice full of sleep and his eyes still closed.

"We'll be in serious trouble, if she finds out, man!" Watson still whispered. He didn't know himself why.

"I do not care right at this moment." Holmes opened his eyes and frowned. "What time is it? If it is six, I am going back to sleep."

"It is half past seven." Watson paused. "I think half an hour wouldn't hurt." he then said, curling up next to Holmes again.

"Good. Mrs Hudson does not usually bring breakfast until eight thirty." Holmes muttered as he brushed his face free of hair. "Did you sleep alright?"

Watson yawned noisily. "Yes. Yes I did indeed. Did you also sleep as well as I? Did you have enough space to your own?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes, yes… Plenty." He smiled before closing his eyes again.

"You are so beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?" Watson mused, looking intensely at his friend, tracing the back of Holmes' eagle beak-like nose with his finger.

Holmes frowned. "Until now, no. However, I have read how you have described me in the past and I have seen how I've been illustrated by Mr Paget. I don't know which is worse…"

"You of all people should know that my view of you has changed completely. And as to the illustrations…I am sorry, Holmes." Watson smiled, and then shrugged, busying himself with stroking Holmes' naked chest.  
"We, that mean, Conan Doyle and I, are already looking for another one, but there seems to be nobody else who wants to do it for a reasonable price."

"Watson, I know you love Paget's drawings. The one he did of us by the fire is in your drawer. You have no photograph of either of us and how else are e immortalized?"

Watson laughed. "We? No, no, no, Holmes. You alone will be the one who will be remembered. People will forget about me, as soon as I lose the ability to write, my dear chap. But you…your unique manners, and your sharp mind, will never be forgotten. Believe me.", he kissed Holmes on the lips.

"I shan't let you be forgotten. If it were not for you, I would not even be known."

"Yes, you would." Watson dug his face into Holmes' neck. "Certainly, you would."  
There was a long silence after that. They both silently enjoyed the time they had together; and the golden sunlight, which filled the room through the blinds. "Let us go for a picnic, when all is over. Let us just spend some time in the countryside…only us. Nobody else who could spoil our time together."

"That sounds rather… Romantic." Holmes said. "Do you think it suits us? Romantic…" He repeated the word several times. "It sounds strange."

Watson wriggled a bit and then looked at his watch. "Perhaps you are right. Breakfast would be a splendid thing to have right now!"

Holmes tutted and rubbed his hands over his face. "I suppose we should get up…" He moaned.

Watson did as he was told, but before Holmes could take it, John had an idea. "Shall I help you with those annoying buttons, Holmes?" he asked in a quite sly tone.

"If it is on the table. Pass me my shirt."

One by one, Watson closed the white buttons of his companion's shirt. Teasingly slowly, he pushed them into their holes.

"Now it's your turn." he declared.

Holmes frowned at him, opening his mouth to object before he realised the romance behind the gesture. "Please. I do struggle with the buttons."

Feeling a mixture of shame and alarm, he touched his neck. But then he burst into laughter.  
"I think we probably should not have been that passionate. But now you mention it, you too should hide…the stains."

Holmes tutted and held out his hand. "Alright, you can get the shirt. And I suggest you have a high collar. Your neck is awfully purple." He grinned.

The procedure went on like this, until they both were fully clothed; probably neater than they had never been before.  
The only thing that was still missing on either one, were their watches. They still lay on the bedside table; their chains entwined, like the fingers of their owners as they now sat on the bed, listening to the frail ticking of the mechanisms inside the little metal houses.

Holmes shot him a glare and crossed his arms. "Trousers. Now."

"Not until eleven, dear." Watson flinched. "Happens always happens to me when I say that, it does not feel right. How strange a feeling…" Watson stood up, without letting go of Holmes' hand. "I think it's best if you joined me in four or five minutes in the sitting room."

Holmes looked down at the hands, his head tilting to one side. "We… We ought to go down to breakfast. Haven't you got a round today?"

The four minutes turned into five, and the five turned into ten. Finally, after twelve minutes exactly, Watson heard the door open and watched his friend enter the room. Now he was freshly combed and shaved, the looked even more dashing. Watson regarded his friend with dreamy eyes.

Holmes nodded. "I need to shave anyway." He ran a hand across his chin and frowned before standing up.

Watson shook his head, trying to rid himself of his daydreams.  
"Well, I will, after breakfast. I have waited for you, you see. Even if you do not intend to eat today, I still enjoy your company while taking in my own meal. Besides, is there any news of the McLeod killings? Any trace of the murderer?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at him as he slouched down in his chair. "What?" He asked, picking up one of the three papers Mrs Hudson had left him. "I have only have and tidied my hair up. Something I suggest you do too."

The next day, proved him right, like so often. After another night together, both men went separately down to the breakfast table. Holmes had gone first, so Watson was not surprised when he found him in the living room. What did arouse his curiosity though, was the fact that he was pacing up and down the room, like an animal whose cage was too small; the newspaper, crumpled in his clenched fist and fury in his eyes. "Good heavens, Holmes! What is the matter?" Watson exclaimed.

Holmes shook his head and hissed. He himself had no answers. "I thought our killer would go after Mr McLeod and that would be the end of it but she has not. It must be something to do with McLeod…"

Watson looked up from the note, with disbelief when he had finished reading.  
"Another murder…this time the victim was a woman from…Limehouse?  
Why Limehouse, Holmes?"  
he was too confused to ask any proper question.

"She what, Watson?" Holmes snapped, getting up again. "Was she and McLeod once in talk of marriage? Did he take something from her? Is that why she turned to the Lord?" He muttered to himself, leaping to his desk, sitting himself down and pulling a couple of sheets of paper and a pen to his attention

"What makes you so sure of it? She…"  
suddenly the entire room was silent, except for the ticking of various clocks and watches, and the unruly tapping of what must be Holmes' shoe. "No…no…" muttered Watson like in a trance. "Could it be, Holmes, that she was once…the wife's love-affair? It is easier to do such things when you are young…and it's almost what could be called normal between girls…"

Holmes suddenly stopped his scribbling and looked up, his lips formed a slight 'oh' and one eyebrow raised. "I love it when you are clever." He muttered, returning to his jotting of notes.

Watson couldn't help but blush.  
"Ohhh…ugh-thank you, Holmes", he said, pretending to remain calm, while internally he felt like a child, whose teacher had just presented one of its works in class.  
"So…what are we to do now, my friend?"

"Well, I am going to send a telegram to Lestrade and ask him for the details and we are going to figure out where (Place the name of the murderer here, I forgot what I called her) is heading next. Once I have the name of the victim, I can get McLeod to talk and explain what the connections are and settle this thing once and for all. The only good thing this case has brought us is unity."

It was not even an hour, when the answer to the telegram came: in shape of Inspector Lestrade himself. The doorbell rang shortly, and Mrs. Hudson guided the ferret-faced man upstairs.  
"Good morning gentlemen! Here we are again, Mr. Holmes, here we are again."  
"Oh, good morning! Please do sit down Inspector. Will you have a cup of tea with us?" asked the doctor, according to the etiquette.

Holmes stood up and presented the Inspector with the paper he had been writing on. "Here. I have made a few links to the murders. Please, feel free to add your own and to tuck into breakfast. I am in no mood to eat… Plus you must be famished!" Holmes said, disappearing off to his room.

There was nothing left for the two, what Holmes would doubtless call "ordinary" men, but to stare at each other in amazement.  
"Whatever that was good for. After all he was the one who ordered me to tell him all I know. But God knows, it's better than being snarled at by this man. Don't you get me wrong, doctor, I admire him as much as any man, but I sometimes can't understand what is going on in this singular head of his…" to mark the end of his little speech, the Yarder tutted.  
"Well…" answered Watson. "I think I begin to see through him, but you are right, Inspector…it is very difficult to handle him. But then again, that is what makes him who he is, I suppose."  
Both men chuckled, before turning serious again.  
"Would you be so kind as to let me know what you have found out about this recent murder in Limehouse so far? I guess Holmes is listening to every word that is spoken in this room right now. And if he is not, I can tell him what you will tell me now, afterwards. He trusts me enough to do so." Watson helped Lestrade to a large cup of delicious tea with milk, and a fresh scone.

There was a 'ha!' from the direction of Holmes' room and he poked his head round the door. "Yes, do explain Lestrade or you may have another murder on your head. It is your fault the women is back on the streets, not mine…" He scorned before disappearing. "I want every detail." He called back.

The Inspector took a deep breath. "As you say Holmes!" he cried louder than truly necessary. "Well…the Constable who is responsible for this area found her on his round. He was first alarmed by blood on the door-handle of an OPEN door. You perhaps know the area better than me, Holmes…from one of your…" he cleared his throat "INVESTIGATIONS… so you might be aware of the fact that open doors in Limehouse…never happen, except for in opium-dens or brothels. This place was neither. It is a house, where workers and poor families live. As it happens, the victim was not even a prostitute! Constable Finnegan told me her name just before I left for Baker Street; some people around the area were able to identify her as a Kristina McMillian; a common flower girl."


End file.
